


A moment

by lady_mab



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, that boyfriend +1 forward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-10 15:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11694759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_mab/pseuds/lady_mab
Summary: "Let me get you some tea, and a bag... and I want you to sit. And just..... breathe. And... we can sit together. And just please, take some time... before whatever craziness comes next for you." "Yeah, I can do that."





	1. Chapter 1

Emmanuel sits down across from him, and finally, for just a moment, Lem remembers to breathe.

“Do you ever know how to be still?” Emmanuel asks, teasing, but there is a tinge of frustration to his words. Fondness, too. “It seems that every time I see you, you are taking on the world.”

Lem exhales a laugh that he doesn’t know he feels. “You know, I’m not too sure.” 

“It has been almost four months since Nacre. And in all that time?”

“It’s the life of an Archivist. I’m either sitting far too still, or not still enough.” Whatever is needed for the Pattern. Lem winces at the thought, and distracts himself by wrapping his hands around the mug. It’s dwarfed in his grip, but he’s held smaller, more delicate things. “Certainly not since arriving in Rosemerrow.”

Emmanuel looks down at the steam rising from his mug. “How long have you been here?”

He studies the man across from him. Watching, looking for some sort of answer to questions he doesn’t know yet. “You mean before or after the New Old museum incident?”

Emmanuel responds with a chuckle, ducking his head and raking a hand back through his hair. “Of course that had been you. I should have known.”

“ _I_ didn’t do it.”

“You bring trouble with you, Lem King. You blow in with a breeze, and you turn it into a storm.” Again, frustration – fondness.

Lem doesn’t have a good response for that.

Emmanuel traces his finger idly through droplets of water – the result of a hurried attempt to save the plant. Missing the pot as they laughed at the absurdity of the situation. The plant was beyond saving by water alone. It sits across the empty restaurant now, far from the cursed sword hilt, now buried in the bottom of Lem’s bag.

He watches the aimless pattern that Emmanuel’s finger takes before allowing himself the indulgence of reaching out. Lem covers Emmanuel’s hand with his own, pressing the tips of his fingers into the baker’s palm.

Gently, he guides Emmanuel’s fingers through the water droplets. Tracing them into designs to form shapes only he can see. He hums under his breath as he does.

“And what kind of magic are you using now?” Emmanuel’s voice is barely audible, caught in his throat.

“A shield,” Lem mumbles. “To protect you.”

Across from him, Emmanuel makes a small sound. “From what?”

“The stars. Ordenna.” _Hella_ , he almost says, but holds it back. Instead, as he forms the final swirl of the pattern, feels the relief rushing through him as it comes together, he adds, “Me.”

Emmanuel scoffs. “From you?”

“You said it yourself: I bring trouble.”

The fondness wins over, his expression softening, opening into something earnest. Emmanuel lifts his free hand and brushes it over Lem’s jaw. “I think it is too late for that.”

Lem doesn’t argue. He closes his eyes against the touch and breathes in the calm, the faint scent of crepes, the soft kiss pressed to his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look i wrote more

The kiss turns from one to two -- to three, four, and then Lem loses count. It turns from shy, to curious, to bolder each second. 

Their hands shift, grasping for stability. Lem presses the tips of his fingers to Emmanuel’s jaw, the tilt and rush of the sudden onslaught of emotions catching him off-guard. There’s a trickle of laughter from Emmanuel in response before he pulls back. 

“I’m glad you have found your way here,” Lem murmurs, unwilling to break the silence of the room. 

Outside, things have calmed down. The fires have been extinguished, injured being taken care of. The shop is closed, the others having abandoned their stations in order to assist. 

Emmanuel stayed behind. 

“At the same time you did?” 

“At all. Vellas is…” Lem trails off, uncertain how to explain. 

It’s enough for Emmanuel to understand. “Rosemerrow is closer,” he replies, trying to turn it into a joke. 

“I know.” He leans further back, reaches out to brush strands of hair out of the way. 

“And to run into you… I think it may not have been so bad after all.” 

“Don’t--” Lem starts, but then he’s pulled into a tight hug. 

“No, Lem. No.” Emmanuel scoots in, perching on the edge of Lem’s chair. 

Lem moves his arms automatically, wrapping them around Emmanuel’s waist in response. 

“I have been so scared, until now.” His voice is low, barely audible over the background din. “I honestly did not think that I would see you again.”

He remains silent, enjoying the softness and the stillness. “I have work, still. With the Lance.”

“And after?” 

After? Lem’s not even sure he’s going to survive through the night. Not with the stars. Not with Ordenna -- not with his own luck. 

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “There’s so much going on…” 

Emmanuel pulls him in for another kiss, leaves it soft and careful. “As long as you can, let me see you.” 

“I will,” Lem says without hesitation. “If I can, I will.” 

“Alright. _Alright_.” 

They sit like that, in the stillness and the silence, until the distant clock tower chimes to signal the hour. 

Lem pulls himself away, slowly and reluctantly. Emmanuel follows him to his feet. Together, they gather up his things, and Lem shrugs back into his backpack. 

He’s almost out the door before, fond and exasperated, Emmanuel calls after him. “I am not going to keep this plant for you, Lem.” 

There’s a bit of swearing beneath his breath before Lem hurries back for the plant. “Ooooh, I wish I could forget about this,” he says with a sigh. And then, because he hadn’t said it before, he leans in and leaves a kiss to Emmanuel’s upturned face. “I’ll see you again soon.” 

“I will see you soon,” the baker echoes. 

There’s another kiss. There’s not time for two, or three or four, before the bell rings again and Lem has to hurry to meet his next appointment. But he carries the soft smell of strawberries and a dusting of flour on his clothes to keep him company.


	3. Chapter 3

In the end, the case is a fucking mess. 

In the end, it felt like nothing they did even mattered. 

In the end, only Blake is saved - the small, halfling thief that Lem barely knows despite the events at the museum. Mother Glory is turned into less than a martyr by an angry mob. Elgash Orr is killed by a man who--... 

He doesn’t want to have to think about what he has to do. 

Hella and the others set out almost immediately to their next destination. Hadrian moves with a purpose, a sinking realization and hopeless unmooring that Lem feels in his stomach as he watches them plan and move out. 

Fero is nowhere to be found. Lem doesn’t blame him. (Or, perhaps, he does. A little. The Pattern is so… _broken_ , right now. If only Fero had acted differently. If only he had _cared_ more.) 

Ephrim and Lem agree to wait a bit before heading towards the New Archives. There are things to do still at the branch here. There are things to do still at the church. 

There are things to rearrange, affairs to take care of, secrets yet still to be found. 

There’s a huge gaping hole in what Lem can only think as the overarching Pattern, but really, it just feels like a rip in the fabric of his comprehension.

He should go back to the room he rented, because being around anybody feels like it will be one straw too many. 

His feet carry him automatically back to the cafe. It’s been hours -- over a day since they were brought on by the Golden Lance. He’s exhausted. He’s confused. He wants to mourn but he doesn’t know how or what. 

There’s too many things that have been lost. 

He’s shown to a seat by a young halfling. He thanks her, orders a pot of tea, and asks if Emmanuel is working. 

Confused, she agrees to go check for him. 

There are a few other occupied tables, but Lem manages to arrange himself in this one so that he’s facing a wall and no one else. He lets his bag slide from his shoulders and drops it unceremoniously on the ground. The violin he places with a degree more caution. 

Lem arranges the items on the table with idle precision. A familiar pattern, one he uses often. To ward against unwanted attention. Just because he doesn’t want to be around people doesn’t mean he wants to be alone. 

Just left alone. 

A hand presses gently between his shoulder blades as the pattern is completed, and Lem jumps. “I did not mean to startled you,” Emmanuel says, softly, letting his fake accent slip away. He sets a tray down on the table with a tea service, including several small pastries. Those he hadn’t ordered, but as soon as he sees them he realizes how hungry he is. “Is it done?” 

“Yeah,” Lem sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “The case is closed.” 

To his credit, Emmanuel doesn’t press the topic. He leaves his hands between Lem’s shoulders, a comforting weight. “I only started work about an hour ago. Did you did come to try and bribe my boss again?”

“I’m sorry about that. And I can leave, if you’d rather--” He starts to rise. 

“No, Lem. No.” Emmanuel places his hands on both of Lem’s shoulders and guides him back down into the chair. “Stay.”

The phrase reminds Lem of the evening before, as they sat together on one of the just barely too small chairs. He stays seated, but it doesn’t stop the overwhelming feeling of being lost. 

Emmanuel must read it in his face. He pours the tea and folds Lem’s hands around the porcelain. “Please stay. As long as you like.” He hesitates, glances over his shoulder at the kitchen, and tightens his grip on Lem’s hands. “If you go, leave me a note. Or… where are you staying? Maybe I could find you after.” 

Lem feels a small ache in his chest that he doesn’t know how to interpret. “I’ll stay,” he says. “Until you get off. I-- I’m not really… staying anywhere at the moment.” The room he rented would have only been valid for another night or so. He hadn’t planned on… all of this. On investigating for the Lance. On the murder of Elgash. 

On finding Emmanuel here, of all places. 

He was supposed to deliver Isaac Addleton to the New Archives. Now what? 

Emmanuel’s hands press closer still, and Lem looks up into the warm, dark gaze. “Then stay with me.” There’s a beat, and then he glances away, embarrassed. “I would like to hear more about your adventures, Lem King.” 

He feels himself relax, feels that little jump of his heart, feels himself smile. “I would like that.” 

Emmanuel visibly relaxes and the smile comes easily to his face as well. “Let us know if you need anything. You know where to find me.” He retreats back towards the kitchen, and Lem watches him go with a warm ember of satisfaction in his chest. 

The rumbling in his stomach brings his attention back to the tea and pastries spread out before him. Lem hesitates, then lifts the cup to his lips. The faint floral scent immediately sets him at ease. He closes his eyes, breathes it in. 

Lem keeps the memory of Emmanuel’s kiss at that smell. 

Tension eases enough that he stops feeling like he’s being watched. Dealing with Arrell is a problem he will need to worry about in the future, but right now, there’s no Archivists, no mages, no _anything_ that is after him. 

He finishes off half the pastries before he realises that he’s probably eating them too fast. He wants to make them last. 

Lem finishes off his cup of tea and pushes the tray side. Then he pulls his bag closer to his feet, to rummage around in the side pockets for parchment and a pen. 

The first bar of the stave starts the spell. All the way across the parchment, the tip of his pen practically humming with the motion. The remaining four follow in quick succession, a sure hand drawing steady lines. 

The clef comes next. No time signature, no key. He doesn’t know what he wants to write yet. He just has the notes in his head. 

Lem spends the afternoon composing. He doesn’t allow himself to think about the notes. He goes back and changes what is necessary, what the song in his head changes itself to. Things are scratched and blotted out, notes written atop other notes in an incomprehensible scribble. 

He’s vaguely aware of what happens around him. At one point, his tea goes cold, but he’s too busy writing. Keep the pattern going. Keep the melody from faltering. It’s the only way he knows how to process the whirlwind of events over the last few hours. 

The next time he reaches for his tea, forgetting that it’s cold, he realizes that it is warm again and there is new food on the tray. A tiny scrap of parchment is tucked beneath the plate. 

_You look busy. I did not want to disturb you. -- E_

Lem slips the parchment into a breast pocket on his jacket, and takes a sip of the tea. It’s different -- stronger, robust. Fortifies him. He allows himself a break to enjoy the tea and small sandwiches. 

The work continues for a few more hours. By the time he runs out of melody to write, there are several sheets of parchment scattered about the table, two having fallen to the floor. Lem is left staring at the mess, wondering it meant anything, or if it was just a waste of time. 

A soft footfall catches his attention, and he turns to find Emmanuel scooping up a stray piece of parchment. He has a heavy jacket draped over one arm, and a knit cap dangling from his fingers. 

“I must admit,” Emmanuel says, his fake Velisian accent a little too strident. “I half expected to come out here and find you gone. Off on another adventure.” 

Lem takes the sheet of music and shuffles it in among the others. There’s no sense to it yet, so he doesn’t pay attention to which pages go where. It will be a pattern for another point in time. “No more adventures for the moment.” 

Emmanuel waits patiently as Lem gathers up his things. Makes small talk with the server who comes to clear off the trays. Takes Lem’s hand in his when saying goodbye and leading them to the door. 

The chill gnaws away at the hazy sense of comfort that had taken over during the hours in the cafe. Enough that the dawning sense of dread of the future starts to claw its way back up his spine. Lem tenses, brain already trying to pick apart the feeling, trying to decide what plan of action comes next. 

But Emmanuel gives his hand a gentle squeeze and tugs him to the right.

Lem only hesitates long enough to shake off the urge to plunge into action. He reminds himself that he has time -- if not much, then at least a moment. The work can come later. The world can wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized, belatedly, that they actually left the day after the case. 
> 
> Oops.

They go grocery shopping. 

It is one of the most mundane activities that Lem has ever done and he loves it. 

Grocery shopping just isn’t something that he does. He shops for supplies, but they always serve a greater purpose. Supplies for patterns, for traveling. Besides the Archives, he has never been in a place long enough to settle in and shop for groceries. 

As they shop, Emmanuel explains that he is renting a small room, using whatever he has to spare to help the other refugees from Nacre. It’s rough, but he is thankful they have this opportunity.  
Lem wants to apologize, but he doesn’t know how. So he pays for the groceries instead, despite Emmanuel’s protests, and together they carry them back. 

Emmanuel makes dinner, and Lem helps by letting himself be bossed around the tiny kitchen and does his best not to make a mess of things. There’s a rhythm to it he doesn’t quite know how to figure out. Not without a few attempts. He doesn’t know if he has that luxury. 

After they eat, they clean up. They talk -- about a lot of things, things that aren’t important. Memories and adventures, anything but what has to do with their current situation. 

Lem doesn’t realise that he’s dozed off in the middle of the conversation until Emmanuel shakes him back awake. “I’m sorry. I’m… It’s been a very long day.” 

“How long have you been awake?” 

He tries to do the math but the numbers don’t come. “Two days, perhaps? I can’t quite remember. It’s hard to tell.” 

Emmanuel gives him a look, fond, exasperated, and shakes his head. “You should have said something.” 

“I wanted to keep talking.” 

“We have time to talk. You need time to sleep.” 

Lem nods in tired agreement and moves to where he left his bag against the wall. 

Emmanuel tuts in disapproval. “What are you doing? You think I would let you sleep on the floor?”

Lem looks to the bed, a rickety cot that looks barely able to hold Emmanuel’s weight. “I am already intruding. I don’t want to also kick you to the floor. I’m used to it. I’m an adventurer.” He puffs out his chest a bit at that, and receives a snort of amusement in response. 

There’s also a raised eyebrow, as if in challenge. “Alright,” Emmanuel replies. He rises from the table as well, and Lem watches him cross the room to the cot. He gathers up an armful of the blankets and deposits them unceremoniously on the floor. 

“What--” Lem starts, uncertain of the point of this. “Emmanuel--” 

“Lem,” he counters. He pulls the remaining blankets down, completing the odd collection. There’s not many, and they look threadbare at best, but Emmanuel drops down onto them with a huff of breath and pulls off his boots. “I won’t let you sleep on the floor, you won’t let me sleep on the floor. Then we will both be stubborn.” He pats the space next to him, and Lem feels himself rock forward on the balls of his feet. 

But he doesn’t take the first step. 

With a sigh and an eyeroll, Emmanuel holds out his hand. “Lem,” he repeats, turning the name into a request -- a command. 

This time, Lem obeys the tug. 

He toes off his boots, shrugs out of his jacket. He discards the pouches and the bracelets and the belts and soon he realizes that Emmanuel is laughing -- hand still extended, still waiting. 

“You are like that joke where the warrior is asked to remove all their weapons,” Emmanuel teases through his laughter, fond. Nothing but fondness in his expression. “And all you do is pull out more and more weapons from places there shouldn’t be any. But with you it is pouches and belts.” 

“The life of an Archivist,” Lem says, unfastening the last strap and adding it to the pile. He crosses the room and takes Emmanuel’s hand, allowing himself to be guided down onto the pile of blankets. 

“It must be a tedious one. You do this every night before bed?” Emmanuel trails the tips of his fingers over Lem’s wrist, mapping the skin that had been hidden beneath a band of beads. 

He watches the pattern unfold, marvels at the aimlessness of it, marvels at how it still manages to steady him despite that. “Generally, no. I’ve gotten used to sleeping with them on. You know, life of an adventurer and all that.” Then, hesitating, embarrassed, he adds, “I thought it would be uncomfortable for you.” 

The kiss that follows is unlike those from the day before. It’s drawn out, deeper, unhurried. 

Lem presses closer, and is rewarded with pinpoints of pressure against his neck and fingers carding through his hair. The tie used to keep it in a sloppy bun is tugged loose, and Emmanuel pulls him down. 

They collapse back onto the blankets in a tangle of limbs. 

A moment, then two, before Lem reigns himself in. He pulls back, propping himself up over Emmanuel with a hand on either side. 

Emmanuel’s touch follows the curve of his neck, lingering just below his jaw. It takes several disorienting seconds before Lem realizes that the fingers are pressed to his pulse. 

He catches Emmanuel’s eyes, holds his gaze. Then he lifts a hand and trails his fingers up Emmanuel’s arm. 

Their fingers twist together, and Lem tilts his face to press his lips against Emmanuel’s palm. 

“So much has happened in four months,” Emmanuel says, his voice tight. “To think. An archivist and a pastry chef, who meet on board a pirate ship.” 

“ _No boats_ , Fero said.” Lem allows a small smile to tick the corner of his mouth. “Do you blame us? For what happened at Nacre? To Calhoun?” 

Emmanuel considers this question before shaking his head. “I think the Ordennans would have come, regardless. The Empress’ death… If she lived, I do not believe, in the end, she would have made a difference. We have learned of how she planned on leaving us. And if she could leave, why not us? Why would we have to remain rooted there?” 

Lem continues to study his expression, even though Emmanuel’s gaze has drifted to the side. He’s content to just watch and lets the silence draw out. 

Just when he thinks that is the end of it, that he should settle down and sleep, Emmanuel takes a breath. When he speaks, his voice is tiny, patched together. “I think… I think I regret not leaving with you, when you asked. Like this, I am… It is strange. I have been okay with it for years, but that was before you. Before all I had of you was a memory of that cigarette.” 

Dropping his gaze, Lem hesitates before he lowers himself back down. He leans in and presses his lips to the curve of Emmanuel’s neck, mirroring the touch from before. There is no pulse, no beat beneath his kiss. 

But he doesn’t stop. 

“Lem--” Emmanuel starts, but the rest of whatever he’s about to say is cut off in a gasp as teeth scrape against his jaw. “Lem--” 

His answer is another nip, smoothed over with a kiss. 

Emmanuel’s arms drape over his shoulders, curl around his neck, pull him in closer. His breathing hitches, comes out as a strangled sigh.

When Lem finally draws back, he leaves a small red mark behind. “You can have this new memory of me.” 

Emmanuel’s gaze is unfocused, searching Lem’s face for some sort of explanation. “Do not talk like I am already losing you again.” 

“Not yet. I don’t want to think of that yet.” Lem closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of Emmanuel’s fingers running back through his hair. 

They move at the same time, folding back into each other’s embrace, nestled in the pile of blankets on the floor. 

In the silence, as he finally starts to drift off to sleep, Emmanuel whispers, “You fascinate me, Lem King.”


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Emmanuel is up before the dawn. Lem wakes up, too, because his ‘honed adventurer senses’ stir at any sign of activity. 

“I am sorry that I cannot stay with you all day,” Emmanuel says over a quick breakfast. “Tomorrow, perhaps--” 

Lem shakes his head. “I have things I should be doing. The Archive branch…” He trails off. Suddenly, his appetite is gone. 

A part of him regrets agreeing to wait. He should move out immediately. He needs to beat Arrell to the New Archives. He has a duty to the _Pattern_ \-- 

But then he catches sight of Emmanuel standing there, hair mussed from sleep, rubbing nervously at the new mark on his neck. And he realizes that the Archives can wait just a little bit longer. 

They go their separate ways. Lem leaves his pack and his violin in Emmanuel’s room, unable to remember the last time he felt this light.

* * *

“DeVar?” Lem calls, hunched over the table in the front room. 

There’s a muffled thump followed by a distant, “Yeah?” 

“Do you have an extra ticker belt?” 

“I think there’s one around here somewhere. Why? I thought you had one.” DeVar emerges from the stacks, dust in his hair, his fancy shirt a little rumpled. He gives Lem a once-over and lifts an eyebrow. “You forget all your shit this morning?” 

“I might have missed a few when getting dressed.” Lem had been halfway to the Archive when he realized that several bracelets, one belt, and two pouches were missing. “Do you have the belt or not?” 

DeVar holds up his hands and mutters, “Easy, easy,” and disappears around another row of shelves in search of it.

Lem stares down at the ledgers left behind by Elgash. A few notating which pattern items belong to, a few giving margins of error for how many could be sold or traded before the patterns were disrupted. 

What is he supposed to do with all of this? He would need a week, a month -- time he didn’t have to be able to properly categorize and redistribute all of these items. 

The belt is tossed onto the table, jerking him out of his thoughts. He looks up to find DeVar watching him curiously. 

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” Lem asks suddenly. 

DeVar is taken aback, looking around as if there is something else that could answer instead. “I don’t know, man. This is way above my pay-grade.” 

“The Pattern is our only guideline for what is our ‘pay-grade’ or not.” 

“Then it’s way above both of ours, if the Pattern knows what’s what. We’re both--” DeVar reaches for words, can’t find them right away. “We’re cogs. There are bigger cogs than us. Leave it to those bigger cogs.” 

Lem fiddles with his pen, trying to form an argument. Nothing comes, and DeVar leaves him with a shrug. 

The numbers continue to swim across the ledgers. He doesn’t reach for the belt. 

“Fuck it,” he finally mutters, and heads off into the stacks to explore.

* * *

That night, Lem arrives back late to Emmanuel’s room. His arms are ladened with all sorts of mismatched blankets. 

“What--” Emmanuel starts, stepping out of the way to let Lem in. 

“Things occasionally go missing during periods of upheaval at the Archives and their satellite branches.” Lem says this like it’s supposed to be more like an explanation, but it definitely feels like an excuse. 

That night, after dinner, they curl up beneath a down comforter and several knit blankets in place of a mattress.


	6. Chapter 6

The third night, Emmanuel brings home a bottle of nice wine that he says a shop owner owed him for a few favors. They split it between them in less than glamorous cups. It’s strong, heady, and they’re both more than a little drunk by the time they make it halfway through the bottle. 

In a low, thoughtful voice, Lem recounts the details of the last few months. The two cases for the Golden Lance. The infiltration of the New Old Museum. His role in each of them. 

What happened to the two halfling guards when his pattern broke. 

What is waiting for him when he returns to the New Archives. 

Emmanuel listens to this all in silence, his expression unreadable. 

When they finish the wine, Emmanuel reaches out and takes Lem’s hands in his. In the same low voice, he tells the story of what happened when the Ordennans invaded -- the full version, not the sensationalized one he told the entire group when they first were reunited. 

Of how, had it not been for Nacre’s curse, he would have suffocated before he starved. He had been trapped in the ruins of his store, pinned beneath a broken ceiling and the shattered remains of the back wall. He and a few others had made it out, but not until after they had spent nearly a week hidden, hoping, praying to an absent god that they would be passed over. 

Of how he left with little ceremony in a crowd of dozens of refugees, and only learned of a second invasion by the time they reached Rosemerrow. 

He doesn’t know what happened to those who remained. 

They sit like that without speaking -- grounded in solace, rooted in each other’s grip. Emmanuel is the first one to fall asleep, slumped uncomfortably between his chair and the table. 

As carefully as he can manage, Lem scoops him up and carries him over to the pile of blankets. He lays Emmanuel down, tucks him in beneath the blankets. He clears off the table, does the dishes and then sits back down in his chair and buries his face in his hands. 

He breathes in, deep. Breathes out. 

Breathes in, and tries to fight off the wave of panic that threatens to crash down over his head.

* * *

Lem wakes up late the next morning, head tucked against his arm, hunched over the table. There’s a note and a covered plate waiting for him. 

_I will see you tonight._

Hidden behind the plate, revealed when he pulls it closer, is a key and another note. 

_Lock up if you leave._

Lem folds up the two notes and places them into the breast pocket alongside the first.

* * *

That night, Lem brings back something darker and stronger than the wine. He admits to not quite knowing what the alcohol is, and gives the same flimsy excuse of items in the archive branches going missing.

This time, they get drunk on a few shots. When they talk, it is too-loud and rife with laughter and searching hands. 

Emmanuel pulls him over to the blankets. It’s difficult to navigate his feet and remain standing when the entire world tilts back and forth. When Emmanuel tugs him down, Lem falls willingly. 

They can’t stop laughing, even though Emmanuel tries several times to shush him, that his neighbors might complain. The smile, the fondness, on his face says that he clearly doesn’t care what his neighbors think. 

Lem takes this image -- the image of Emmanuel straddling him, smiling, laughing, flush and disheveled -- and tucks it alongside the memory of that first kiss. 

Emmanuel pins him down with a hand on either shoulder and repays the favor from that first night. Peppering the lines of Lem’s neck with bites and kisses and leaving a trail of bruises in his wake. 

They don’t sleep much that night.


	7. Chapter 7

Ephrim finds him in the Archive building the next day. 

The only preamble he gives is a brief glance down at the marks on Lem’s neck and a slight deepening of his frown. “We have to leave,” Ephrim says. “Fero showed back up this morning.”

“Oh.” Lem hadn’t been aware that they were waiting on Fero. “I could have gotten him if that was all it was.” 

“We all had our own obligates to take care of. I did not want to be interrupted in mine, so I would imagine that the two of you would have felt the same.” Again, a pointed look at Lem’s neck. 

He fidgets beneath the gaze, and pulls his collar up a little closer. “Alright then. I can finish up here in a day or two--” 

“No, Lem. We have to go now. Or did you forget about what we still need to do?” There’s an agitation around Ephrim that is nearly palpable. “What is there left to do here that you and DeVar could not have wrapped up in this time?” 

Nothing, to be perfectly honest. At this point, Lem was taking stock of what in-progress patterns might have been useful or worth saving. Which ones would break something if left unchecked or unfulfilled. 

If it hadn’t been for Emmanuel, Lem would have been willing to leave by now. 

This is a heavy reminder of what he needs to prioritize, what he needs to view as important. 

“Alright, I’ll… I need to get my things. Do you think you could buy rations for me, if I gave you the money?” He needs the time to say goodbye, and there’s only so long he will be able to put off meeting back up with Ephrim and Fero, 

Ephrim sighs, but his posture relaxes. “Of course. See if you can get a horse as well. Is DeVar coming with us?” 

Lem scrambled to make a mental note of fees and supplies, already reaching for the gold. “I think there is a horse here I can take. I’ll… Yes, DeVar is coming. I’ll…” 

With another sigh, Ephrim reaches out and clasps Lem’s shoulder. “Listen… I’m sorry to spring this on you. I know we said a week, but…” He looks away, looks down, is unable to meet Lem’s gaze. “Go take care of what you need to. I will ensure everything else is ready to go by the time you return.” 

In a strange mix of reluctance and urgency, Lem passes over the coins, tells Ephrim he will meet them back here in an hour, and heads back out into the cold. 

First, he heads to Emmanuel’s room. Redons the bracelets and belts and necklaces that he had discarded. Slings his backpack back into place, testing the weight. Grabs his violin. 

He stands in the doorway, taking in the room one last time. The decanter of unknown alcohol sits on the counter with the two shot glasses crowding it. The pile of blankets on the floor, strewn about. Already it looks so empty as he closes the door and locks it. 

Lem heads to the cafe, his footsteps dragging and slowing the moment he gets close. 

Emmanuel is working in the front today, his chef’s apron replaced with a plain black shirt. He spots Lem approaching, and his expression lights up in a way that makes Lem’s heart flutter. He leaves the cafe and meets Lem on the street just outside. “We must stop meeting like this, Lem,” Emmanuel teases. But then his gaze focuses on the straps of Lem’s bag, on the violin in his grip, and the smile falters. “Oh.” 

“Everyone is ready to go except for me, it seemed.” Lem shrugs, tries to smile, to summon the warmth he felt just moments before. Nothing seems to work. “We’re heading out as soon as I get back.” 

“I see…” 

Lem reaches into his pocket and pulls out the key. “Thank you. For letting me stay.” 

Emmanuel reaches for it, but neither of them are willing to be the first to pull back. “Thank you for staying.” 

“If…” Lem starts, uncertain. “If I can stall them until your shift is done, would you come with me?” 

A laugh manages to make its way to the surface, faint and breathy, shaking Emmanuel’s shoulders. “Oh Lem. You know I cannot.”

“I had to ask.” 

“I know.” Emmanuel steps in closer, his hands still wrapped around Lem’s and the key. “I have your card. I know where you’ll be.” He taps out a senseless rhythm on the back of Lem’s hand. “There will be more refugees coming to Rosemerrow. It is important to have someone on the inside that can help them assimilate and avoid the Ordennans.” 

They’re standing toe to toe at this point. Lem leans down until their foreheads are almost touching. 

They both maintain some degree of distance, vaguely aware of the cafe patrons around them. 

“Plus,” Emmanuel finally adds, the smile returning. “I will be able to help more people -- I have a friend in the Archives.” 

“Wait--” Lem pulls back, confused. He tries to run through a mental list of other Archivists that might have crossed paths here and what that might mean for either of them. “You do? You didn’t tell me about this.” 

“I meant…” Emmanuel shakes his head, fond, exasperated, and presses one hand to Lem’s cheek. “Once people are settled, I’ll send word. I’ll visit, at least.” 

“If you’re able.” 

“If I am able.” 

Lem can’t help it. He closes the distance and presses one final kiss to Emmanuel’s lips. 

As he pulls away, Emmanuel closes Lem’s hand around the key. “Keep it.” 

Lem nods and slips it back into his pocket. 

And then he takes a step back, then another, and a third. He turns away and tightens his grip on the violin case. He hears the sound of the cafe bell tinkling as the door opens, but he doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> i really love all these kids help enable me writing more by flinging prompts into my ask box (http://lil-miss-banana.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
